After the party 1 страница

My mother’s probably asleep. She hasn’t answered. I still feel like shit. Hell, I am shit. Groaning, I pull my T-shirt over my knees and wrap my arms around my legs; then I bury my face there. I’ve been here for a while when I hear the downstairs buzzer. I’m not answering. I really am not.

The third time it buzzes, I give up and go answer from the kitchen. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Malcolm.

I glance frantically around the place I share with Gina. It’s in a Chicago factory-turned-apartment building. The doors to our bedrooms are both in a short hall, one on the right side, one to the left. Painted wooden bookcases and framed metal columns stand between the kitchen and living room. We have a hole in the wall between the dining room and the pantry, and the cheapest alternative we could think of at the time was to hang a huge whiteboard over it on the dining room side, where we write things when we get drunk or just feel like it. It used to be my idea board, but the girls hijacked it.

It’s... home. My home. What will he think of it?

This apartment is my pride, my little spot of peace, and now HE will be in it, and it will be intense. It’s been a while since my friends and I have had this conversation, but no man has crossed the sacred barrier of my apartment threshold. Ever. He’s the first. The very first.

I’m nervous about him seeing my place, my safe zone, my pride and joy, through eyes that have seen far too much of the world. Far more than me. What is pretty to me may be simple and uninteresting to him.

“C’mon up,” I murmur and buzz him in, then hurry back to my bedroom, slipping on some leggings and exchanging my T-shirt for a long blouse, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Sighing in despair over my swollen eyelids, I scrub my face with soap and head to the door. He’s waiting outside when I open it, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, staring down at his shoes, his eyebrows furrowed.

He looks up at me. My legs feel paralyzed, as if they’re not getting enough blood. He doesn’t know how monumental it is for me to step back and wave him inside. God, he looks so good—as good as he did minutes or hours ago—that I almost trip on the rug.

“Do you want coffee?”

He glances around my place with a nod.

His tie is unfastened and hanging around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair curls at the collar of his shirt, and when he rumples it and keeps surveying my place, it sticks out all over his head, dark and lovely. I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, I bring us two cups to the coffee table. I take the couch and watch him lower himself into my favorite oversize reading chair, the one I do my best thinking in. I’m a little afraid now that I won’t ever use it again without remembering he was parked right there.

“I’m sorry I bailed,” I whisper, sliding a cup across the table and retrieving my hand before he can reach for it.

“I heard you weren’t feeling well.” He leans forward, ignoring the coffee. Ignoring my apartment and everything except me.

His dissecting look makes me lower my face and exhale. “Yeah, I guess,” I agree.

“Somebody hurt you, Rachel?”

“Maybe...” I raise my head at the protectiveness in his tone and cross my arms over my chest. A male figure has never been concerned over me, protective. I like it so much I smile a little in happy amusement. “Will you punch her for me?”

“Her?”

“Me,” I specify, shaking my head. “I’m referring to me, she’s the one who hurt me.” I tighten my arms because seeing him in my place makes my mind keep going elsewhere, to another time, at the top of the Interface building. I can’t believe I’ve kissed those lips. I can’t believe he kissed me for so long.

He laughs softly, runs a hand through his hair. “Then no, I won’t punch her.” A pause, a laden look.

Then kiss her again, I think recklessly.

Groaning inwardly at the thought, I put my face in my hand for a moment.

Saint seems to be beyond puzzled by me right now.

“Is this a girl thing?” His voice brings my head up, his tone a mix of confusion and amusement that, coming from such a hard and closed man, is unexpectedly sweet.

“It’s a me thing,” I admit. “I saw someone tonight—she works where I work. She’s always so spot-on. Everything she writes is absolute gold. Her topics, her metaphors, her similes!”

His chuckle fills the room—a rich, beautiful sound—and then he reclines farther back in the chair, the embodiment of a businessman relaxing.

“I’m personally a fan of your work, Rachel.”

My ... what!?

“You always lay out your topics with refreshing honesty.”

“You’ve been reading me?” I’m sure my voice and round eyes betray my surprise.

That small smile again, combined with a scowl this time. “You think I give interviews to just anyone?”

“Honest?” I ask.

When he nods, I dip my head low. “I thought you saw my boobs pushing out of that top on my profile picture and told Dean you’d see me.”

His eyes crinkle with humor, but then we stare for long, heavy minutes, and our smiles fade.

“I read your column before that interview was granted.”

“I must’ve been such a disappointment in person. That first interview? It’s the most embarrassing interview I’ve ever had,” I admit.

We stare again.

I want him to say something, so I wait.

“I thought you were lovely.”

I’m blushing red.

He’s not known to be big on compliments, or a big flatterer. He’s known to be blunt, his honesty close to making people uncomfortable.

I’m uncomfortable now because I feel him looking at me with new intensity, and when he speaks again, the girl inside me feels euphoric.

“It gave me great pleasure to watch you walk out with my shirt. It seems every single one of my employees who saw you knew that I wanted you. Everyone knew this except maybe me.”

My breath catches.

“Oh,” I say, when I manage to expel it.

“I didn’t know then, ” he specifies, his stare unflinching.

The desire I feel is so absolute, so powerful, I cannot think of anything else but him and the fact that I cannot have him.

I’m acutely aware of the distance between us—of exactly how many feet lie between him and me in my living room. I turn on a lamp, and the room becomes more alive; all the light seems to make love to him, to the angles of his face.

“Why are you here, Saint? If it was because of what happened at Interface, I made a mistake.”

“Then let’s make another one. A bigger one.”

I laugh nervously. “What is this? Am I a challenge to you now?”

His lips quirk. “A challenge is something you stop wanting once you acquire it. I can’t know if you’re a challenge yet until I make you mine.”

I can’t believe how sexy that short little word, mine, is when the man I want utters it. I want to hear him say it so many more times, in my ear, closer to me. Oh god. Livingston, get under control.

But how can I? The tension is so thick in the air. I inhale the scent of him with every breath; every breath reminds me my body is tight and throbbing, every breath hurts because of him.

He’s watching me as if he wants to figure me out. “So, your friend...”

“Victoria. She’s my age, but she’s had short stories published already, she’s writing a children’s book for sex education, she makes success look so effortless. I can never do as much, think of the concepts she comes up with.”

“Use it, use it to become better. You do your best when someone else is right there trying to beat you. I was...” he begins, then laughs softly as if amused at himself. “Okay, let’s try this.” He edges forward in his seat. “I was a disappointment to my father.” He speaks casually, but he watches me as if he wants to be sure his words have an effect. “I’m not sure if it’s been since I was born, or later... when I got sick. Dad never forgave me that weakness. He asked for DNA testing, sure my mother had had an affair, wanting to prove I wasn’t his son. I got bigger, faster, stronger, just because the one man I wanted to prove myself to underestimated me.”

“Was he a tough dad?”

“Tough as nails. Nothing anyone did was good enough to suit him.”

“Is that why nothing you get is good enough, why you’re always chasing after more?”

“Not because of him. It’s because it never feels like enough. I never stop unless I want someone else to catch up.”

“You’re tough as nails too.”

He laughs and shakes his head, his hand restlessly running over his head. “You okay now?”

I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“You being here right now is holding me back from a pretty nasty hell.”

He stands, and my heart stops beating as he comes and drops next to me. I’m pudding when he tugs me into the nook in his strong arm. “Come here.” He holds me for a while, his arm encircling me. He’s not soft at all—his chest is hard, his shoulders square—but I feel his warmth and heartbeat, and suddenly I realize I’m pressing my mouth to his throat.

He circles my waist with his arm and traps me against his chest. He caresses my neck from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.

I slide my hand up his chest.

He meets my eyes with blazing force, and I start chasing my breath in fast pants as he ducks his head.

He kisses the edge of my mouth. My lids sweep closed from the pleasure, and I don’t dare move a muscle.

He frames my face with the palms of his hands and slowly brushes his lips against mine. He eases back an inch, looking at me again, making sure I’m okay before bending again and opening his lips against mine.

He holds me loosely as I kiss his mouth, as if giving me space, letting me get accustomed to him. Everything about him is hard. His jaw. His chest. His arms. His hands. But oh my god, his lips. His tongue. His lips are warm and soft, kissing me hungrily. His tongue lightly slipping through my lips, making me melt into him.

We sink into the couch and I let him kiss me because it’s the most exquisite thing I have ever felt. I open my mouth wider, savoring every minute, every second, that his lips are on mine. He kisses me for a long time, over and over again, until I’m breathless. I never want to stop. I could do this for hours. It feels perfect. Amazing.

He draws back and rubs his thumb across my bottom lip.

My brain is thinking so many things at once it isn’t thinking anything at all. I’m breathing hard, looking at him with his hair tousled, eyes hooded, and lips slightly swollen, and he looks back at me like a tiger does its prey. We shift, and I sit on his lap straddling him. He kisses my jaw. I hold on to his biceps, big and strong. He kisses the side of my mouth again, reassuring me that I’m okay, while parting my blouse with his hands. Then he leans down and places a kiss right below my throat.

I look down to his jet-black hair, feeling his warm mouth kiss across my collarbone. He places another kiss right between my breasts, then all the way up to my jaw. He kisses my throat again. Sucking a little here, licking a little there, kissing a little more. I’m looking up at the ceiling, trying to memorize the feel of his lips on me. I feel like I’m separate from my body. If someone were to talk to me, I probably wouldn’t hear them. All I want in life right now is for him to never stop.

He makes his way back to my lips, giving me another soft kiss. I open my mouth immediately and wind my arms around his neck to hold him to me. His hands are big and warm on my thighs—without them I would probably float off somewhere near Cloud Nine. Or in this case, Cloud Ninety-nine.

I melt when I hear his hot voice against my skin. “I keep thinking of that day. And you couldn’t have possibly tasted this sweet....”

I open my mouth, and suddenly I’m kissing him with my whole heart. He is exquisite. Kissing me tenderly, and then kissing me hungrily. The smell of his cologne surrounds me, the heat from his body warms me, and his lips slowly drive me crazy. This little make-out session of ours is going to end up with me in a psych ward.

“Don’t stop,” I breathe, rocking my hips with the sudden ache to get closer to him, to feel his skin on mine.

My body’s trembling. He raises his head and kisses the edge of my mouth, starts nibbling. He groans, and I can tell he’s really getting into it. “Don’t stop,” I beg.

“I’m not stopping until morning.” He draws back and cups my face in both hands. I’m looking into his glowing green eyes, which stare at me with a light in them I can’t describe. He’s looking at me like I’m a goddess. Like he could never have imagined me. He’s looking at me with so much need and tenderness I can feel my throat tighten again. I’m not ready for this. I’m scared. I’m nervous.

“What in the—”

The overhead lights snap on and I sit up in confusion, covering my hot face with my hands.

Gina blinks.

Saint closes his eyes tight, then opens them, and he looks so perfectly hot, so manly, so angry and so debauched by me, I reach out and quickly start to button his shirt, too jealous to let Gina see his chest, his abs, what I’d just been touching so madly.

“I hope what’s happening here isn’t really happening.” Gina scowls with her hands planted on her hips.

“It isn’t,” I blurt; then I look at him as he looks down at me in complete puzzlement, eyebrows slanted low. His hair is standing up adorably, but his expression is beyond annoyed.

“Your roommate,” he curses under his breath as if he should’ve remembered I had one.

Mortified, I pull him to his feet—with much effort—and then to the door. “That... was beyond a mistake. I don’t know what got into me.”

His stare is dark as night and his voice is gruff with desire. “I know what got into you—the same thing that got into me.”

“No.” I go into the hall, call up the elevator, and then push him in with all my effort. “’Bye, Saint.”

“I’ll call you, Rachel,” he murmurs as he grabs my face and kisses my mouth, rubbing his tongue a little over mine and making me moan before I tear free and the elevator leaves.

Oh. My. God. What have I unleashed?

“What was that?”

“He was saying goodbye.”

“I’m Gina, remember. Your best friend. I can tell when you’re lying. Were you guys... sleeping together on the couch like some item?”

“I had a few drinks. So did he. We had that... thing. I’m beyond... not thinking well.”

“Okay. ’Cause we know deep down he’s Lucifer, right? The Arch Douche himself? We don’t sleep with the bastard, we do not drop our walls!”

I nod and go to my room. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand and brush my teeth and then look at my face in the mirror.

What am I doing? I poured my heart out to him. Why didn’t I just tell him I was writing an exposé?

This wasn’t part of my plan. I’m supposed to write an exposé about him, not let him expose me.

But I can’t sleep. I remember the frustration on Saint’s face when Gina came in. A little later, I turn on my lamp and get my cell phone.

I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye, I text, but before sending the text, I dial the number and wonder if he’ll answer. I don’t wonder for long: I hear the sound of him picking up, his voice saying hey.

“I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye.”

There’s a smile in his voice when he answers, relieving me. “If that’s what it takes to get you to call.”

I laugh, then go sober and cuddle up in bed with the phone to my ear, shyly whispering, “You’re different with me than anyone.”

“Because of the ‘fragile, handle with care’ sign you wear.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“You’re so fragile you’ve boxed yourself up so you don’t break.”

“I like my safe zone.”

“Nothing happens in the safe zone.”

“That’s the point—you control everything and it’s predictable and... safe.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Saint says, “When you come outside of your box, I’ll be waiting.”

15

A MAKEOVER

What did that even mean?

I don’t want to be unsafe. It’s the last goal of my existence. I’ve always liked that I have never been reckless.

On Friday, I pour myself mindlessly into a piece Helen wanted for the week. I can’t think; I can’t stop to think or I’ll start to drown in my own fears and confusions. I tell myself to stay detached and keep my eyes on the prize, and that’s all a sensible reporter would do. And I am sensible. At least, I was for the twenty-three years before I met Malcolm Saint.

I’m typing furiously when my phone buzzes and I peer absently at the screen, only to have a heart attack when I see the word I saved him under in my contacts. SIN.

Meet me tonight at the Tunnel?

What is my heart doing right now? It’s doing cartwheels in my chest. I’ve become this girl, this ridiculous girl. The Tunnel is a hot spot known for its dark and winding rooms, its loud music. Hardly anyone comes out sober or unmussed from the Tunnel. Rachel, you can’t go with Saint to the Tunnel unless you’re totally prepared to get your libido in check, and you’ve been doing a lousy job of that.

“So are you ready?”

I lower my phone when Victoria tries to peer over the top of my cubicle. “Ready?” I repeat. “For what?”

“Don’t you remember? Your beauty day! Getting you prepped this weekend to work. ”

“I... ah. Right. How could I forget? The clichéd makeover. Normal girl gets her hair cut, gets the guy, lalalalalala,” I say as I grab my things.

“Yes.” She laughs.

I get my phone and close the file I had open on my computer with a few too many links—but never enough—featuring what Malcolm did this week. In all the pictures there were girls too, but he looked detached. He didn’t look like he was having fun, but then, he’s hard to read.

Once I close up my computer, I follow Victoria to the elevators and we head to a spa. Pedicure, manicure, a trim.

“Highlights.”

“I’m platinum blonde, Vicky, it doesn’t get lighter.”

“Slightly lighter streaks and slightly darker ones give light to your hair.”

“I’ll take the haircut, but I won’t be enslaved by hair color until my hair turns gray. It’s a tip I learned from my mother.”

“What Saint likes is a good ol’ easy woman. He’s not used to working for it—it’s always available to him, and that’s how he probably likes it. Though he really did seem thoroughly hooked on you, Rachel.”

My phone buzzes. I stare at the caller ID, my body once again getting into the action. SIN. Flushing just at the thought of him, I tuck the phone aside and watch my toes get a nice pink coat of paint.

“After the toes, full-on bikini wax,” Victoria announces from her seat next to mine.

I wonder whether she could speak a little louder so that not only the entire spa but the outside world as well could hear.

I lean forward and drop my voice. “No thanks.”

“Um. Hello? Not a question.”

I laugh. “Girl, I’ve got it perfectly maintained. Leave it!”

“All right.” She slaps down the magazine she’d been reading and sets it aside. “But guys like Saint like Brazilians.” She smiles secretively. “And of course, all those gorgeous girls from Brazil too.” She chooses a new magazine and continues in her role of advisor, like she’s an expert on him. “Womanizers like all girls; it’s part of their charm. They’re perfect specimens, and we can’t help but be drawn to that.” She smiles. “You know that earthiness about you, that gentle fierceness—he can be drawn to that. I saw that he was drawn to that. Under that drive, you’re sweeter and more gentle, and he’s more like fire, more forceful, more ambitious. Saint plays around but he’s hard—as everybody who’s done business with him knows.”

My phone vibrates, and this time it’s a call. SIN.

Force and fire.

Hard.

I want to answer. I want to hear his voice.

I also want to not want these things.

I swear, if the knot in my stomach gets any tighter, I’m going to implode.

I’m staring at my phone when another text pops up.

What does a man need to do to get you to say yes?

Chewing on my inner cheek, I stare at my phone for what feels like forever. Yes! Yes! YES! But also NO. We cannot. NO. NO. NO.

Finally I focus on the job, tell myself it’s a yes with an emotional and physical no attached, and answer:

I’ll meet you there

My hand is shaking as I tuck my phone away again and try to come back to the present. Spa. Makeover. Victoria. Oh yes, Victoria. Very interesting development here. I scrutinize her in confusion, then say, “From what you just told me, I’m starting to think you actually want me to succeed.”

To be honest, I don’t bother to hide my surprise because, well, I’ve been surprised by Victoria in a great way today.

“I do want you to succeed—why wouldn’t I? I love working at Edge. Where am I supposed to go?” A look of puzzlement crosses her face. “We all know we’re on our last breath. Nobody’s taking over. Our print run gets tinier by the second. Every one of us will end up without a job.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want that.” She sighs. “I want to be looked upon favorably by our bosses, but to be honest, I’m not sure what I’d do with Saint if I ever had him.”

“Oh, that boy just can’t be had.” I laugh lightly, but inside, this makes me sad. That Saint is so apart from the crowd may make it harder for him to feel like he “belongs” anywhere. That he will never belong to anyone at all.

“What do you mean, ‘he can’t be had’?”

“He just can’t be had, not in any way that matters to him. Nobody’s gotten more than just a tiny piece of Saint. Not his dad, not even his mother. No woman. Not his friends or his businesses. He spreads himself around, even in his interests. Nothing really claims him. He keeps that to himself, all that fire. He just gives you a glimpse of the spark.”

“Well”—she fans her face with her hands—“you already have a better grasp of him than I do!”

A little before 8 p.m., I enter my apartment, remembering I’d promised Victoria I’d wear a dress. “Try not to reveal too much. People always take their tops off for Saint. He might like wondering what’s underneath instead.”

“He won’t get to see it, so he can wonder to death,” I flippantly said.

But I’m surprised my tongue didn’t catch fire, because I don’t feel flippant. I feel anticipation of the kind that makes you concentrate on nothing. Makes you try to do ten things at once and fail at them all.

I haven’t seen him since he Frenched me outside my apartment right before the elevator doors closed.

By the time Gina gets home, I’ve got clothes strewn all over my room. I had texted her: Sin is at the Tunnel tonight and we’re going!

Whereas I’d been deliberating what to wear since before I even opened the door, she instantly storms inside and takes charge.

“What are you still doing in bra and panties? Get dressed! Wear that top that’s cool and modern in blue and white that says MY BOYFRIEND IS A SAILOR, just because you want to appear taken and like you didn’t try too hard.”

“Not try too hard? I spent four hours at a spa. I paid for my silly makeover.”

“Wear that top anyway that says your boyfriend is a sailor. If he wants in your pants, he’s going to loathe that.”

I pull the top out of my closet and eye it, my nerves skyrocketing as the seconds tick by. I decide maybe I will wear a skirt and the boyfriend top. Not as seductive as a dress but still, he can get an eyeful of long legs now that they’re slick and oiled up nicely. And why are you wanting to show him your long legs, Rachel?

“Is this a good idea, G?” I leap into my skirt.

“It’s a fucking great idea, it’s exactly what you wanted!”

“Um, no, it isn’t. I wanted research, but this is almost like a date.”

“No, it’s not. Saint doesn’t date. He just hooks up.”

God, I’m wishing he’ll drool for me.

I’m wishing that at least one night, one night in his existence, he will have a wet dream about me.

But I’m still so uncertain. I turn and ask Gina, “Is this all right? I’m treading such a fine line....”

“Rachel, just remember he’s using you, you’re using him; you’re not in a relationship, nor will you ever be. Just do the job and don’t get involved.”

“Okay,” I quickly agree, just to get her to stop saying the word using.

I gulp back a ball of nerves the size of a lemon and as bitter as the peel, then grab my bag and tell myself that I can do this, that I want to do this, that I want to do this more than I want to do him.

16

TUNNEL

“Okay, we’re mingling. Help me find Emmett.”

Wynn, Gina, and I roam the mazelike rooms inside the Tunnel with the smells of clay walls and sweat filling our nostrils along with perfume, cologne, and alcohol. Flashing lights and music hit us as we head toward the heart of the Tunnel, the “pit.” Wynn leads the pack while I trail behind, head turning as I look for him.

“Bet he’s there.” Gina points at a room to the right, which is filled to capacity, so I can’t even see past the wall of glittery dresses and skin at its fringes.

“Why there?”

“Hello? Where there’s smoke there’s fire? Where there’s Saint, there are GIRLS.”

Frowning at that, I wedge myself through to the busiest corner, and my heart stutters because there he is, the Guy Who Owns My Hormones. While Callan and Tahoe look good, Saint could be wearing a sign that says BRING EXTRA PANTIES.

Two women sit on each of his friends’ laps, and a pretty blonde socialite is talking to Malcolm, looking at him in complete rapture.

Music pulses through the speakers. Bodies bump and jostle as I steal this moment to watch him while he’s not watching me. Tan, his hair standing up a little bit, his shirt rolled to the elbows like it always is at the clubs, where it gets hot and crazy. God, butterflies.

He’s laughing as he turns, rather casually scanning the room, and then his shoulders tense. My heart stops, flips, because he’s noticed me. Then I’m subjected to the seriously uncomfortable pressure of his scrutiny.

He cocks a brow, and once again he gets that curl to his lip. You going to stay there all night? I can almost hear him say.

Saint sets his drink down on the side table and comes over. Every step makes my heart beat faster and faster. He looks at me, starting at my feet and working his way upward—his eyes miss no detail.

“Rachel.” He draws me into his strong arms and presses a kiss to my cheek, the brush of his lips so incredibly light I can’t believe such a minuscule gesture can do so many things to my body. I’m having a war inside myself as I try to steady my breathing as he takes my hand and tugs me to their table in the back. I was born a girl; I’ve got proof of that on my birth certificate. But I’ve never felt so much like a girl until this moment, when my hand feels tiny and fragile in his strong grip.

Callan and Tahoe greet me through the music. “Hey Rache!” “Hey Rache!”

I slide into the booth and Malcolm settles down beside me, his shirt stretching in so many places I can’t help feeling constrained in my own skin just by the sight.

He orders a drink for me, then sits back, looking as relaxed as I am tense. Something happened when he visited my apartment. The fact that it mattered to him if I was feeling well or not touched a chord, but also, he opened up to me in a way that surprised me, and, even more surprisingly, I opened up to him. We both shared things—real things. Now, the intimacy between us is so palpable right now that every inch of me aches to get closer, as close as we felt that night.

His arm outstretched behind me, his friends continue to banter and do wicked things to their whores with their drinks. “How was your week, Rachel?” At Saint’s question, a warm glow of excitement flows through my veins, because there’s real interest in his gaze.

“Good. My work is good. My mother’s good. I... well, I don’t want to bore you.” But I smile. I can’t remember when anyone’s looked so attentive listening to me describe what my week was like.

Then I ask him about his trip to London—because of course I read that he was there for forty-eight hours—and he says it was “good,” then shifts the subject back to me.

“What are you writing about now?” he whispers.

He’s always so focused on everything I say; people pass and slap his back or call his name, and never once does he lift his head to acknowledge anyone apart from me. Just as engrossed in him and having trouble steering away from dangerous topics, I hedge and say, “Researching for next week’s column.”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29